


A Day As Nice

by alocalband



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocalband/pseuds/alocalband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's supposed to be a gag gift. But, of course, Derek Hale can't even be the butt of a joke successfully (pun intended).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day As Nice

**Author's Note:**

> More tumblr fic! For no good reason! This was going to be cracky fluff and somehow turned into feelings fluff. Much more so than the summary would suggest.

Okay, so it’s not like Stiles purposefully goes _looking_ for this shit. Except that, yeah, he totally goes looking for it. He’s always been wired… differently, and ever since the Nogitsune clusterfuck ended he’s been suffering through the worst case of insomnia in recorded history.

He has to keep his brain busy, or else he’ll go crazy. Again. And at four AM on a school night ‘keeping busy’ basically just devolves into trolling youtube for funny videos of cats, and buying random crap on society6 and etsy because he got bored sifting through the mediocrity he was finding on Amazon. If Stiles is going to buy stuff he doesn’t need just because he can’t sleep, it’s at least going to be something handmade. And possibly having to do with robot dinosaurs wielding lightsabers. He has standards.

When he comes across this particular hand-embroidered throw pillow, he doesn’t even think about it, just clicks “buy,” and then opens a new tab to google if cross-stitch porn is a thing.

One week later, when he’s holding the pillow in his hands for the first time, he can’t stop snickering. He imagines Derek’s face when presented with it, and just the mental image alone is enough to make Stiles burst out with genuine laughter, and _god_ it has been _way too long_ since he’s been able to laugh like that. It feels good. It feels like one of the recently broken parts of him is actually starting to heal.

Because of this stupid fucking pillow that’s probably going to result in him getting punched in the face. Stiles feels like the first step on the road to recovery should probably be something a little more profound than a joke gift for a frenemy, but he’s desperate enough to take what he can get right now.

Thursday evening, after Lacrosse practice, Stiles heads over to the loft to get this over with. He was certain this whole thing was a brilliant idea right up until the moment he had to do it. But he’ll be damned if he taps out on something as ridiculous as this after all the hell he’s managed to live through.

“I hope your day is as nice as your butt,” the thing reads in a happy font. Derek stares at the pillow for a long time while they stand in his doorway. Then he raises his head and stares at Stiles with the same flat look.

Stiles forces a nonchalant shrug. “What? You deserve a nice day. I bet you haven’t had one in, like, eight years.”

“Six,” Derek deadpans, and did he just make an almost-joke about the death of his entire family? Holy shit, the gallows humor is strong with this one.

But Stiles supposes it would have to be, wouldn’t it? There’s a reason that, after everything that’s happened to Derek, he’s somehow still standing and still able to throw around the sarcasm with the best of them. Stiles wonders if Derek might be willing to offer him a few tips on the matter, because most days recently it’s a struggle to force himself to leave the house.

“Well, there you go.” Stiles shrugs again. “It’s been way too long. Even by your emo-wolf standards. You should get a nice day.”

“As nice as my butt,” Derek says flatly.

“Okay, maybe not _that_ nice. It’s a really good butt. I’m not sure _anyone’s_ had a day that awesome.”

Derek makes a pained expression. “I don’t understand. Are you coming on to me right now?”

Stiles chokes. Sputters a cough. “No! Shit, dude. I meant that, like, objectively. Objectively you have a nice ass. Don’t be weird about it.”

At Derek’s single raised eyebrow, Stiles throws his arms into the air, exasperated. “Oh my god, can’t you just be mortified by this like you were supposed to be so I can have a good laugh about it and then tell Scott all about how red you turned.”

“So your goal here was to embarrass me.”

“No, I— No. I mean, a little bit, yeah, but not in a mean way? Look, I saw that online and immediately thought of you. You should feel honored that for some inexplicable reason I like you enough now to want you to have a less than shitty day occasionally.”

“You sure it isn’t my _ass_ you like enough?”

Stiles drops his face into his hands, cheeks burning. “Oh my god shoot me,” he mutters into his palms.

There’s an awkward quiet until Stiles thinks he hears Derek shuffle his feet, which is ridiculous because at no point in their acquaintanceship has Stiles ever known Derek to stand in a way where feet shuffling is possible. “Stiles?”

“Yes?” Stiles says into his hands.

“I… appreciate the sentiment.”

Stiles barks a wry laugh and finally looks back up. “Which part of it?”

One corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up just a bit, half smirk and half something a little too fond for Stiles to be able to process. “All of it. Especially the pillow. I’ve been meaning to add a feminine touch to the place.”

Stiles steps forward and punches him hard in the arm for that. “Dick.”

Derek just smirks and whacks him softly with the pillow on the side of his head; then turns and heads back into the loft. Stiles follows him without invitation, but Derek doesn’t say anything about it.

“Please tell me you didn’t needlepoint this thing yourself,” Derek says, throwing the pillow at Stiles’ face while dropping down to sit on the floor in front of the coffee table, where books and papers are spread out haphazardly, as if he’d been in the middle of a research frenzy that Stiles interrupted.

Stiles _sort of_ manages to catch the pillow, then lets himself fall down onto the couch. “No, I bought it online. Though I _could_ use a new hobby or three. I’ve got way too much free time on my hands lately. What are your feelings on knitting?” He plays with the corners of the pillow, fingers searching out loose threads to pull.

“I don’t think I have any.” Derek snatches the pillow out of Stiles’ destructive hands and puts it under his head as he lays down on his back on the hard floor. He drums the fingers of his left hand against his chest in an uneven rhythm. “So you’re still not sleeping,” he says to the ceiling.

Stiles sinks down further into the couch cushions until his head falls back and he’s looking up at the ceiling as well. At the murky light coming in through the dirty skylight. “Not really.”

There’s a long pause, and Stiles starts to worry that Derek’s about to ask the dreaded question, the “do you want to talk about it?” question that everyone keeps asking him and that keeps making him feel like utter shit for really _really_ not wanting to talk about it. Ever.

Instead, Derek says lightly, “You deserve a nice day, too, you know.”

A surprised chuckle escapes Stiles. “As nice as my butt? Because at this point a mediocre day sounds just as good as a nice one, so I’ll still take it.”

“You think you have a mediocre butt?”

“You think I don’t?”

Derek snorts. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”

Stiles laughs. “Nah, dude, you can’t just leave me hanging like that.” He jumps up and turns so his back is to Derek, and then looks down at him over his shoulder. “Come on. On a scale from one to ten.”

Derek just kicks the back of his knees, and Stiles stumbles down to the floor in a heap. But he’s laughing now and can’t stop, and his legs have landed half on top of Derek’s legs so he attempts some flaily kicks in retaliation that force Derek to sit up and hold him still by his thighs, one large hand tight on each, Derek’s knees pushing up hard into the meat of them.

Stiles’ laughter fades abruptly. Derek’s watching him closely, suddenly guarded but not removing his hands, not pulling away.

This is going to start to feel awkward any second now, so before that can happen Stiles darts his head forward quickly and kisses the edge of Derek’s mouth, honestly kissing more stubbled cheek than anything.

Derek’s eyes widen, but otherwise his expression stays carefully frozen.

Stiles swallows. “It’s been a long time since I felt like laughing. So. Just. Thanks.”

Derek takes awhile to respond. But then says, softly, “You’ve never actually thanked me for anything before. Is that always how you do it?”

Stiles ducks his head, and yep, the embarrassment is definitely starting to set in now. “No. Not always. Not… ever, really. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Stiles.”

“No, it’s not okay. I didn’t mean to make this uncomfortable. And you shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around me just because I—“ But he’s cut short when Derek darts his own head forward, just as quick as Stiles did, and kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles gapes.

“Thank you for the stupid pillow,” Derek says.

This is… this is nuts. Stiles spends half a second about to panic because what if he’s dreaming, oh god what if he’s— But Derek’s intense gaze, the weight of him still holding Stiles’ thighs, the sense memory of his dry lips against Stiles’ skin, couldn’t be duplicated, not by dreams and not by demons.

Stiles licks his lips. Tries for cocky but ends up sounding just as scared and confused as he feels. “You’ve never actually thanked _me_ for anything before either. Is that always how you do it?”

“No,” Derek says evenly. “Not ever.”

And then they’re kissing again, properly kissing this time. It’s still this chaste, close-lipped thing, but with so much intent behind it, from both sides, that it feels like being punched in the gut. Stiles is fucking _winded_ by it. Goes dizzy as they pull apart.

“Wow, I…” Stiles blinks.

Derek looks equally out of sorts.

“For the record, I think your ass is great even when I’m not being objective,” Stiles blurts. Because his brain fucking hates him.

But Derek breathes out a pleasantly surprised chuckle, and then he leans forward until his forehead is resting on Stiles’ shoulder. One of his hands is still gripping Stiles’ thigh, but the other has come up to card through the hair on the back of Stiles’ head.

“For the record,” Derek says, his breath hot against Stiles’ clavicle. “’Mediocre’ is the last word I’d use to describe you. Any part of you. And I hope you have a day just as nice as the one you’d hope for me.”

Stiles swallows heavily, staring over Derek’s shoulder at the hole in the far wall. At the spot where Boyd died. At the table where they once planned to break into a bank vault what feels like centuries ago, lifetimes ago, all happy memories now belonging to someone else while bad memories remain sharp and clear.

But his hands are on Derek’s waist. Their legs are still tangled together. Derek’s forehead is still pressed into Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles knows now. _He knows._ That the only way out is through. That “keep going” wasn’t just a platitude but a key. Find new things to laugh about. Make new happy memories if you can’t rely on the old.

Stiles moves his hands up and fists them into the back of Derek’s shirt. “Can this be that day?” he whispers.

“…The first of them,” Derek says after a time, voice hushed as well, for no reason that Stiles can discern except that the moment feels like cracked glass about to shatter across the floor if they so much as breathe too loudly on it. “Just… promise me there will be more. I want you to have more.”

“I want _you_ to have more, idiot. That was the whole point of this,” Stiles retorts, and he means it sincerely but ends up sounding petulant.

Derek laughs softly and then lifts his head to meet Stiles’ eyes. “What if we shared?”


End file.
